Robert Conroy - 1920 - America's Great War

His only source of possibly accurate information was the Mexican woman who was the mistress of the pig of an American who worked with the Germans. Sanchez despised traitors and Olson had betrayed his country.

Martina Flores had confirmed the bloody defeat of the Mexican Army in Texas and had then given him several pieces of additional bad news.

First, she said that Carranza was dead. If that was really true, and Martina’s source was a good one, then who did he owe his allegiance to? Obregon? How about to himself, he was thinking.

Second, and most horribly, the Americans were in Monterrey. His family had fled to Monterrey. He didn’t think they’d be molesting his wife. She was grossly overweight, bad tempered, and had few of her teeth left, all of which had influenced his decision to enlist. However, he had a daughter who was fourteen and ripening into a beauty. He became coldly angry at the thought of Americans touching her pale skin and frustrated because he was so far away that he could not protect his little angel.

The third thing that Martina told him, had shocked him to the depths of his soul. If the Germans pulled out, his men were supposed to kill the American prisoners. Mother of God, he could not do that. He supposed he could kill in battle, or in self-defense, or to protect his daughter’s fragile virtue, but he could not massacre the Americans who had done nothing to him. Some of them had been quite pleasant, even friendly, and he’d been surprised that so many spoke his language. Murder them? But what would he do if either Torres or the German, Steiner, ordered him to? Or what would he do if the Germans began to massacre the Americans? He dimly recalled the now discredited parish priest once telling him that people who do nothing in the face of evil are sinners as guilty as those who actually commit the act. If he did nothing, he concluded, he would go to Hell.

Mother of God, he repeated, what had he done to get into this mess? Not counting his drunken ass of a captain, Pedro Sanchez had forty men looking to him for guidance and leadership and all he wanted to do was go home. Mother of God.

Pedro Sanchez worried about his future.

Luke heard the drone of distant engines and looked into the cloudless sky. He assumed it was another visit from German fighters. German Albatros D-III fighters were common as they photographed the American fortifications or occasionally strafed an exposed position. American machine guns, mounted on trucks with their barrels elevated, functioned as antiaircraft guns and their accuracy was getting better as they got more practice. Several Albatroses had been shot from the sky and others had been sent running back to German lines with smoke streaming from their engines.

But this sound was deeper, more ominous. Luke shielded his eyes and stared to the south. Bombers. The Gothas had risen from the dead. Escorted by a swarm of fighters, a dozen of the monsters flew in at heights well above the antiaircraft guns. Once again, the American Army was impotent to stop the Germans.

Still, the American gunners opened fire and Luke watched as the tracers arched skyward and then fell back to earth. An Albatros fighter peeled off from his escort position and followed the tracers down to the offending gun. Bullets shredded the truck and the gunners and the victorious German pilot flew off. Luke could only shake his head. The American gunners had forgotten a basic fact: tracers traced both ways.

How had the Gotha bombers returned? His job was Intelligence and he was supposed to know these things. Hadn’t he and Ike destroyed their bomber fleet? Had they managed to ship additional planes to Los Angeles or had resourceful German mechanics been able to cannibalize the destroyed planes for enough parts to create this smaller Gotha fleet?

Since American spies had not detected the arrival of new planes, he decided it was likely the latter and reluctantly gave credit to that Captain Krause. He had been almost weeping with despondency at the loss of his planes. Now, somehow, he had gotten a number of them airborne. Luke didn’t think he’d want to fly in something held together with strings and baling wire, but Krause obviously found pilots and crew.

Luke recalled that they hadn’t had time to look for and destroy the ammo dump where the bombs were stored. As explosions rocked the area, he regretted that fact. The Germans were raiding again.

But for what purpose? It was a virtual given that the American defenses could not be seriously harmed by the handful of bombers. Terror? Possibly, but the risk to the handful of planes was too great for that purpose.

The planes continued overhead. In a few moments he heard more explosions to the north and realized the source. They were aiming for the Dumbarton Railroad Bridge that connected San Francisco with the rest of the world.

Luke chuckled mirthlessly. Even if the Krauts managed to hit the bridge, a highly unlikely event, the bridge could be repaired and rather quickly. And while it was being repaired, the Army would resort to using the barges and ferries that had been in use before the bridge’s completion ten years earlier.

At best, therefore, the Gotha raids were nuisances. He didn’t think Liggett would let Ike and him try another raid to destroy them. This time the Germans would have the airstrip well secured.

D.W. Griffith was ecstatic as he examined the packages before him. “I love you, my fair Elise.”

Elise smiled tolerantly. It was not the first time she’d heard the pun between her name and “Für Elise,” the elegant and delightful solo piano piece by Beethoven. She took it as the compliment it was.

The boxes contained what Griffith craved even more than publicity—film. The war was an insatiable beast and Griffith’s men had been filming anything and everything and sending copies out east via Canadian rail. The rest of the country was now able to view scenes of carnage and destruction, which helped galvanize American attitudes. The films of the burning of Los Angeles and the bombing of San Francisco had outraged the American public. So too had scenes of dead on the battlefield and the badly wounded and terribly maimed young men lying in hospitals.

Griffith had also filmed large numbers of terrified Americans trying to flee north and east. All of these served to fuel American anger.

“David, I sincerely hope you realize that these packages represent ammunition and other war material that didn’t get through.” It was a small lie. The Canadian government wouldn’t let weapons and ammunition be shipped on their neutral railways, but film was allowed.

“I know and please tell both Liggett and Sims that I am profoundly grateful.”

As well you should be, she thought. In a couple of hours she would be with Josh. At least he wasn’t out in a ship or on some secret mission. Today he was involved in something to do with naval construction.

How to hide an elephant in a small room, was the question. The answer was simple. You didn’t. Admiral Sims had reluctantly come to the conclusion that he’d made a mistake; ergo, he would have to own up to it. The elephant was just too big to hide.

Having his few big naval guns pointing out to the Pacific would do no good whatsoever in stopping the Germans from crashing through the Golden Gate and into San Francisco Bay where there would be no American defenses. No, most guns would have to be placed where they could fire directly at the Germans as they attacked the narrow Gate and directly on them if they made it into the bay itself. Once the German fleet was inside the bay, guns pointing out to the Pacific would be useless. A couple would be kept pointing out to the Pacific to keep the Germans honest along with a number of dummy guns, but the rest would be moved.